


Rewarded

by KendylGirl



Series: The Alchemy of Butterflies [6]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Disappointment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, M/M, Mild Angst, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 01:06:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17519240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl
Summary: When Timothée Chalamet does not get the Oscar nomination he so richly deserves, Armie consoles him and thinks back to the beginning and the emotional road they’ve traveled together.





	Rewarded

**Author's Note:**

> “The only way I know anything about what I am is what I see in other people’s eyes.”  
> John Patrick Shanley’s _Prodigal Son_ , which featured the very gifted Mr. Chalamet.
> 
> She lets me ramble on with story ideas, and when I send her multiple raggedy manuscripts at dinnertime, she manages to not want to punch me in the face—for these reasons and so many more, thank you, Willowbrooke!

“I’ll be right back.”

I nod and close my laptop, laying it aside and easing back down under the covers.I watch his ethereal form disappear and feel a dull ache in my chest.I turn my head helplessly to the grey light outside the bay windows.

I want to change this.I want to _fix_ this.But I can’t, and I have no idea what to do.

The feeling grates at me, but I guess it shouldn’t really surprise me.Even from the beginning, I could never really get a handle on what was going on between the two of us.

Maybe that’s because I’d never really known what love is.

If I’m honest with myself, I knew I had a problem with him immediately.I knew I was not going to walk away from the experience of us working so intimately together without some part of me seared and branded by what was about to happen.The piano music in a distant room faltered, and he appeared suddenly, disheveled dark t-shirt and long yellow shorts down to his knees, a nest of curls swirling around his head and draping over one eye.He walked up to me, an awkward blend of smooth confidence and jaunty elbows, a flush of embarrassment and a flare of fascination, an enigmatic smirk below the eyes willing to tell me all.

He shook my hand with vigor, and his grip lingered as those eyes took me in.I was terrified.I’d heard this kid was good, and I wanted him to like me.I guess I wanted him to think I could do the job, and I figured that if he’d seen anything I’d done lately, he’d be having his doubts.He’s an intellectual, I had been told—Columbia and NYU, a theatre ingénue.Great.As if I hadn’t already felt out of my depth.

But he was a complete surprise.He wasn’t cold nor remote, not the flip and self-assured New Yorker I dreaded would put me in my place and leave me scrambling to keep up.He seemed nice, genuine, and somehow familiar, like we’d met someplace before, this encounter more a recognition than an introduction.

Still, I was determined to make a good impression.I was going to show him that I was a serious professional, that he would be able to rely upon my insight and apprehension as surely as his own.

“You know, I honestly thought I could speak Italian better than the average tourist.Until I ordered a steak the other day and got a slab of something that was still mooing.”The corner of his mouth lifted.“I should’ve known something was up when the waiter saluted me.”His eyes glittered and a grin blossomed.“I mean, rare is fine, but should it still have hair and a name tag?” 

And that’s when it happened.

He laughed.

It was a giggle, an effervescent series of them that shook his frame.His eyes pinched closed and he seemed to wither, both hands sinking into my forearm to hold him up. _Holy shit_.My throat burned, and I barely stopped myself from reaching forward to touch his lips, to soak that magical sound directly into my skin.Then, his eyes opened, bright and glowing, beaming at me with amazement or adoration or something I couldn’t quite grasp.I didn’t know what it was, but I did know that I needed more.

I became an instant addict.This was my drug.

I became silently dedicated to his emotions, to eliciting the pinball machine of his processing pattern, of taking something in and working it through his mind, through his chest and gut and into his limbs.I just needed to _affect_ him, and I needed to feel his response.It was shamelessly vicarious living, the closest thing I’d gotten to joy since my daughter was born, and I needed his emotions to prove I still had some of my own.It became a grain of sand that rubbed against the walls of my heart, successive layers of love and affection growing up around it until it formed a pearl, the one treasure for which I’d willingly forfeit all the rest.

 

I push myself back against my pillow and rub at my eyes and let all of it ripple through me, the resonance that grew from a single touch to a bell.

 

Sneaking down the hotel hallway as he spoke with a reporter, just because I couldn’t stay away.I had to see him smile one more time.I couldn’t stop—I _needed_ it.

 

But that was nothing.

 

“I was incredibly proud and…intimidated by what Timmy could do as an actor.”

I felt him squirm next to me.“He doesn’t mean that.”His breath quickened through his toothy grin.

“I _do_ mean that.”I scratched at my scalp, trying not to look at him and reveal even more of myself.

Thank God the interviewer switched direction.Houseguests—that’s safer ground.He cast me a sheepish glance, and I felt that familiar rush.Pistachio shells in the couch cushions.We were laughing again.That was much better; I could volley this away from me easily.“…and you’ll find a bunch of weird shit all over the place!”

He held up a mildly imperious finger.“That’s not entirely true.”

“That is _entirely_ true!”

His smirk stayed steady.“I entirely pride myself on my politeness as a guest, and there’s no part of my life I’m stronger in.”

I shook my head as he spoke, comfortable deadpan intact.

She looks to Tim.“He’s a great host?”

He swallowed down his first thought before looking down and mumbling, “Yeah.Yeah, a _great_ host…”

_Just don’t play at being the good host_.

Or maybe…oh, _shit_.

I thought he’d been too drunk to remember finishing two bottles of Cab with me that night in Crema and falling asleep on the couch in the middle of some movie we’d found, one in Italian with no subtitles, and despite our immersion in the language, we were unable to follow the whippet dialogue.So we’d started providing our own translations, which got more perverted as the night went on, his laughter lengthening and settling into a perpetual smile of bliss as he drifted further and further towards slumber.I’d pulled a blanket over him and kissed his forehead, then slipped behind him and pulled him away from the edge of the cushion, thinking somewhere in my addled mind that I’d tease him forever as My Little Spoon. 

But as I held him tighter, any concept I’d had of this as a humorous situation shattered.Instead, I begged the wine to take me, too, desperate to sleep before I could harden completely, before I could no longer keep my pelvis pressed to the back of the couch while he shifted and sighed inside the box of my frame.And when his purpled lips fell open and settled around my wrist, his tongue caressing the inside of it every time he swallowed, I finally found sleep with one thought floating in my mind: if I don’t wake up, at least I had died with a sense of what heaven is.

 

“The same gift that Timothée has as an actor…where it’s almost like there’s no filter.The rich internal life that he leads he wears close to the surface of his skin as a gift to everybody because you can see what goes on.”

How do I come back from that?How do I pretend that he’s not the best person I’ve ever known and that I’m not in awe of him?How can I possibly convince anyone, myself included, that I’m not in love with him after that? 

Deflection became my best friend.

The second half of the scene?“Sticky.”

 

There was his earnest response for relationship advice: “To hide things serves no purpose…and honest dialogue only fuels a happy, healthy relationship.”

I stared at the ceiling while he spoke. 

_Hide things_?Right now, that was my _only_ purpose.But how long could I keep that up?I gush about his openness, his unguarded nature that makes him such a phenomenal actor. _Such an enchanting person.Like no one I’d ever known before._

Love?

Armie.  _What did he say?_   “Hate.”

Armie?

Elizabeth.“Timmy.”

_What is_ wrong _with you?_

Timmy?

Me. “Elizabeth.”

_Did I just equate him to the person whose ring I still wear?   Out loud?_

Sex?

Love.  _Too dangerous_.  “Pass.”

Am I going on tour with Beyoncé?Now we’re talking.

I rolled my eyes.“She keeps asking me…”His head whipped to me for a moment of genuine surprise before he folded over in a fit of giggles.My chest swelled.“She keeps asking me to go on tour, and I’m like, ‘Look, Bey, you know I love you but I just can’t.’So I don’t think it’s gonna work.”He started rocking in the seat next to me, pulling on the fabric of my pants as he moved and ripping at the hair on my legs.

I thought, _Delicious_.

I thought, _I am so fucked_.

 

And _the_ story, the rehearsal of making out in the grass for two minutes or ten minutes or however long it was—that became our go-to.It’s like every other couple’s “So how did you two meet?” story.It was the definition of how we ripped open the pages of a script and jumped head-first into one another, how the ice melted from my skin under the heat of something I’d never felt before, how I shed it like the chunks that fall from a booster rocket for the space shuttle, the combination of pure liquid elements in the rush of ignition.

I’d never known what it was like to fall so hard, and I told myself at the time that it was the role, that it was me getting into character, playing up to it with all that I had.But everything I thought I knew had shifted for me that day.My world turned inside out, and everything that I had done before this became the rehearsal, three decades of practicing what it meant to be alive so that I could finally get it right when my moment arrived.This was real life, _my_ real life, that I’d never known existed.

 

It wasn’t until much later that I heard it in the film, in the midnight scene.I had no idea I’d done it.I really had been in the moment, I’d told myself.I was Oliver, he was Elio. That’s what I’d honestly thought.But with his hands in my hair, his arms falling around my neck, his scent filling my nose, it just came out. 

“Tim…can I kiss you?”

I nearly tipped over in my chair, all the blood plunging from my brain and sloshing at my feet.It was during a screening of the film in Toronto.There I was, in front of the entire room, utterly naked.All this time, my heart had been on a string, dangling overhead like a piñata for the world to take a swing at, the treasures I’d hoarded there about to be spilled in earnest; all anyone had to do was give me a direct hit along the seam that stitched him to me, the frames of film that had captured my very own summer love story, a phrase I’d offered up myself as a plaintive plea for acceptance, for protection, for something more precious to me than I could have wrought alone.Had he heard it?Had he known all this time?Had Luca?I knew could play it off to the audience as a gust of air, a hum, which is clearly what everyone else believed.But I stared at Tim’s profile and tried to digest its apprehension by the tilt of his nose and the angle of his eyelid as it pulled away from his cheek.

 

What about the time he corrected my French? _Laissez_ _-_ _faire._ Finger wagging in the air, suppressed grin pushing at the corners of his mouth.And no one knew that I had later whispered in his ear, “You’ve got me in French, but I can kick your ass en Español, so don’t make me punish you for that,” and his eyes had grown as dark as his hair.

 

In Paris, I saw him peel off his coat and swish back and forth in his chair and look over at me, and I’d read immediately the devilish thoughts swirling just below his surface.So I kicked his leg under the table and leaned over to him.

“You know what Oliver would say right now.”

His eyebrows had flickered.

“ _Later…_ ”  I dipped my voice an octave and drew the word out, giving him a wink, relishing the way his skin grew splotchy and pink, noticeable even in the dim light.

 

Ultimately, though, I couldn’t resist.

“What are you?Oh, ‘Sexiest Risk Taker,’ that’s what it is.You _are_ taking risks…”And his voice had hung in the air, teasing and droll, and if we had been alone, I could not have stopped myself from pinning him down and licking the smirk off his face. 

When he leaned toward me and puckered his lips in exaggerated fashion to blow me a kiss, I had to close my eyes and bite down on my cheek, feign derision with all of my might to keep from meeting him halfway.

 

“I think I fall more and more in love with Timmy every time I see him.He’s just like…the best.He’s just an open, wonderful, beautiful soul…”

So much for keeping a low profile. 

I tug the bedsheet tighter to my body and replay his matching comments about me from that night, and suddenly it strikes something deep within me, the words so candidly falling from his lips, calling me a great _husband_.Why do I like that so much?Why does that sound like an invitation, like a revelation?

Like a _future_?

 

I hear the creak of the bathroom door opening and feel the dip of the mattress.He climbs over to me, and I pull the blankets up so he can slide under, and he tucks up under my arm and drapes his chilled limbs around me.I grasp different expanses of his skin in succession, trying to warm him up.I love the historic charm of our house, but the heating system could use an upgrade.

“What’re you thinking about?” he mumbles.

“You.”I kiss his hair.“Us.”

“Sounds nice.”He settles his cheek below my collarbone.

“It always is.”

He hums and is quiet.

I know how he’d suffered, how he’d thrown himself into that role, gaunt and aching as he was.I don’t know how many times I’d wanted to stop him from leaving the house in L.A., with his hollow cheeks and deep purple circles underscoring his empty eyes.I wanted to sit on that set and glare at Felix, to plead with Steve or Maura or any producer within earshot to ease up on the number of takes and the hours in the cold and the emotional drain that was making Timmy disappear in front of my eyes.

How Nic survived it all in real life, I’ll never understand.

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

“Yeah.’S’all right.”

“You know you deserved it, right?”

He doesn’t answer.

_I have zero confidence._

My blood starts to boil.“It’s all fucking politics, and you know that.If I had to guess, I’d say they’re scared of you.Two noms in two years?Someone else might have to step up his game to try to compete with you, and those bastards are not ready for that.”I rub my hand down the length of his spine and back up.“Pointless, anyway, ‘cause you’re better than all those fuckers, and they know it.”I can feel my teeth grind together, so I take a deep breath to calm myself.

“You deserved it, too.”

He’d spoken so suddenly, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him properly.“Huh?”

“Last year.You got screwed, and you should’ve been nominated.You would’ve won.”He leans up and gazes down at me, eyes dark and watery.“I didn’t want it last year.I hated that I had gotten a nom but you hadn’t.I mean, nothing would’ve worked without your performance—it was us _together_ that made it all work, and I didn’t want anything if you were left out.”

Ice slides down my windpipe.Had I made him feel guilty last year?Did I pout and tracksuit my way into making _him_ feel as if he shouldn’t celebrate, as if he shouldn’t be proud of everything he’d done?

I scrabble up against the headboard and reach out to grab him firmly around his shoulders.“No! _Stop_ that! _You_ matter, whatever the fuck happens to me!I would’ve appreciated the recognition, sure, but that has _nothing_ to do with what _you_ deserve, Tim.Please don’t _ever_ say that!”I massage his arms.“You are a superb actor, truly gifted, and you’ve worked so hard for this role—months of torture on that set, months of doing promo, mostly on your own, city after city after city.You are _amazing_ , Chalamet, do you hear me?”

His gaze falls, and I see a single droplet of water cling to his eyelashes.“I feel stupid.I…I mean, I know that I shouldn’t care about it, about any of it, but I…I just...”

Part of me wants to punch the wall to take away the ache he feels, or to take away the ache _I_ feel _for_ him, for the one person so pure that he should never feel pain.I exhale hard and pull him onto my lap.His face falls into the crux of my neck.“It’s all right, Tim,” I whisper against his cheek.“Go on, just feel it.I’ve got you.Let go.”

And he does.He convulses once and I can feel the tears hot against my skin, rolling in thin lines down my back.My own tears quietly match them, and I realize that this is far worse than last year, far worse than my own scorn and disappointment could ever have been.After all this time, my addiction has not wavered, merely intensified.

Before, I had wanted to make him feel things, and now, I feel things because I want him.

But then I suppose that is what love really is.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m guessing that most of you are familiar with the various promo clips from these two and their endless press tour for _Call Me By Your Name_. I mostly made use of YouTube for my research, such as [this ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tYcWkmn2UUg%22) and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ia9LjZIhA1E).
> 
> There is not a time that I publish something that I wouldn’t want to know what you’re thinking about it; I love these two gentlemen and respect all of you as readers, so it really matters more to me than you could know!


End file.
